David Ely

The next afternoon we had another staff meeting, presided over by a very different Conan. Yesterday’s Conan was an immovable object. Today’s Conan looked drained. He entered the studio unceremoniously, dressed in a leather jacket and baseball hat—like someone getting ready to leave—then slumped into the guest couch and fixed his gaze on the far wall as he addressed us, never really making eye contact. It was a sight that shook your faith a little, like seeing your dad on crutches.